Patient Number 11
by Damson Jam
Summary: A man who is more than a person sits alone in a room that is more than a prison. There is a knock on the wall by the toilet. Fair warning: this fic is going to be pretty bleak, and will feature 'human' experimentation.


I open my eyes. Whiteness. Specks of light.

The harshness of it forces me to squint as I focus. A latticework of white tiles, LED spotlights spaced out evenly across the grid. I am lying on something, on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

I attempt to heave myself into a sitting position. Fireworks burst across my retinas. I am lightheaded and dizzy. I feel sick.

I slump back. On a bed, I now realise. Just a thin foam mattress on a narrow frame. There are no depressions or marks on it. No tell-tale signs of repeated use. This mattress is new. No pillow or duvet or blankets.

How long have I been lying here?

I turn my head slowly to the left, careful not to trigger another fireworks display. I stare at the wall opposite. It is about three metres away. White and featureless.

There is a toilet in the corner. Stainless steel. No lid. A small matching basin affixed to the wall beside it. Sensor taps. Latest innovation. Certainly not cheap.

Set into the adjacent wall is a metal door. Heavy looking. Solid. It has a hatch at about standing eye-height. Presumably to allow someone to see into the cell once the cover is slid open from the outside. There is another, wider hatch door at floor level.

There is nothing of note on the floor, which is also white tile. It's surprisingly warm as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and tentatively press the soles of my bare feet against it.

Ten toes. Pale Caucasian skin. My eyes traverse up my body, taking everything in. A thin, white calico jumpsuit hangs loosely from my frame. A slight bulge in the fabric below my abdomen (and a lack of any at chest level) betrays that I am male. My fingernails are short and neat. I unconsciously move my hand to run my fingers through my hair, catching myself in the act when fingertips brush against soft stumble. My head has been shaved.

I don't know if I've always had short hair. I don't know what colour is it.

My stomach plummets as I realise: I didn't know anything about my physical appearance before I started checking myself over.

I don't know who I am.

I no longer care about the explosions of colour in my eyesight as I throw myself towards the door. I put my whole body weight into pulling at it, pushing it, clawing at it, trying to pry it open. I'm yelling now, and my voice sounds alien to me. Screaming, begging for help until my cries grow hoarse. I work myself up into a frenzy until I am exhausted. I sink to my knees and place my forehead against the cold brushed surface of the door. Half-heartedly I fiddle with the hatch. It would be far too small to fit through anyway. It's clearly bolted from the other side.

I stay hunched in this kneeling position, head against the door, shutting my eyes. I try to search my memories for clues to my past, to my identity. To why I am a captive here. I find that I have no past, no identity; because I have no memories.

I could have spent hours like this. There's no way of monitoring the passage of time. I imagine never moving from this spot, my muscles atrophying as I waste away into a pile of sinew and bones.

I cough. My throat is sore from the abuse I put it through. I could go and try to activate the tap on the basin behind me. But I don't move. Time continues to stretch on as I splutter and cough periodically.

Then I hear it: a rattle and clank. The hatch in front of me is slipped open. A small polystyrene cup of water is swiftly pushed through, placed on the floor between my knees by a latex-gloved hand. Before I can react the hatch is slid shut again.

I take a moment, frozen in place, to process this new development. They could hear me coughing so they gave me water. They heard me screaming and they did nothing.

I slam my hand down on the cup, squashing it flat. Cold water escapes around my palm and pools on the tiles. Cutting off my nose to spite my face. But it's a tiny bit of self-determination. Proof that I possess at least some kind of control over my current situation. The thought is comforting. Empowering.

Maybe that's why I pull back, tilting my neck slightly, before smashing my forehead into the door.

White lightning in my vision. I tell myself that this is my own choice, as I head-butt the metal again. I am taking action. That counts for something.

Another strike, accompanied by a sickening thud that resonates inside my temples.

Maybe it will bring relief? Blissful unconsciousness?

Again my head makes an impact.

Oh, fuck it hurts. I don't want this.

Another collision.

Why can't I stop?!

As my head jolts forward once again, the door swings open sharply. Caught off guard and off balance I fall forward, flat on my face. There's ringing in my ears, but behind it, I can make out panicked talking.

' _You are not allowed to open the doors!'_

' _I had to do something about it, didn't I?!'_

' _Oh shit, why was he doing that?'_

' _Somebody get the newsfeed back on!'_

' _So is he hurting himself because of the riots, or is he making them worse by hurting himself?'_

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

' _Get Mr Walpole down here, now!'_

I hear hurried footfalls as one of the speakers runs off.

I'm still dazed as I feel a gloved hand on my chin, gently forcing my head upwards. Through the blur of residual pain, I make out facial features. A woman. Not young…but not old. Mid 40's, at a stab. Not unattractive. Wearing crisp, white medical attire. I have to fight the urge to vomit down her front.

She stares at me, brows knitted in concern and concentration. She methodically observes my face, the bruise I can feel forming on my forehead. But…I don't know how to describe it…it's like she isn't looking at _me_. Maybe it's my imagination (or possible concussion), but she isn't inspecting me as if she's looking at another person. It's like I'm an artefact. A precious antiquity that's been carelessly knocked off its display stand. She's checking for damage. For integrity.

She extracts a small pointer-torch from her breast pocket and darts it into my eyes.

'Pupil dilation delayed, for a human,' she mutters to a colleague hovering at her shoulder.

A younger man. And I would never have thought there could be anything so captivating in existence, as to warrant the look he is currently giving me. It's like I am his God. I am his world. It's not a look that I am entirely uncomfortable with. It feels like I have been looked at this way before. Like this kind of reaction is…to be expected?

Christ, I hope I'm not an egomaniac.

The woman appears to notice my focus is lazily directed past her shoulder. She turns to see her colleague's expression and irritably swats at him. This seems to break the spell.

She hauls herself up off her haunches.

'Help me get him on his feet,' she commands the man.

She gently, but firmly, links her hand under my armpit and tugs. The man follows suit. I can feel his arm trembling slightly through my thin sleeve.

What reason could he have to be afraid?

Now standing, I'm quite unsteady and need the two…doctors? Wardens? Scientists? To support me.

I use the opportunity to take in my surroundings.

On either side, desolate corridors stretch away from me. Starkly illuminated by fluorescent strip lighting. Immaculately painted in the colour scheme of white and muted, mint green. It evokes a medical ambience; as if these are the halls of a newly built private hospital-

-Except for the many formidable-looking steel doors spaced evenly along the walls. Identical to the one on my own cell. Are there others confined like me?

Ahead there is a third branching corridor, much shorter and wider than the other two. Standing in the middle are two parallel work surfaces, white and modular in style. Atop them sit computer consoles, a cluster of medical instruments, and expensive-looking technical devices I can't identify the purpose of. They are manned by a handful of people, men and women of various ethnicities, all dressed identically to the couple currently lifting me up.

All of their attentions are fixed on me.

They are silent. But I can hear a commotion, tinny through the speakers of the screen nearest to me at the workstation. It is turned enough towards me that I can make out the video currently being played.

Shaky, low-quality camera work shows a swarming mob of civilians versus police clad in riot gear, in an overcrowded city square. Alarms sounding. Emergency vehicles ablaze. Rocks being thrown through storefronts. Glass reduced to shattered crystals lining the pavement. Screams of panic mixed with cries of fury and chanting. Someone on fire.

As I watch the erratic splicing of footage, take in the chaos being broadcast, I feel tension throbbing through my body. My eyes begin to sting, my hands trembling as I clench and unclench them.

An involuntary groan, almost like a growl, thrums in the back of my throat.

The woman holding me gives me a chastising look.

I should blind her.

The thought swims in from nowhere and dissipates just as fast. But the squirming mass of agitation in my gut remains, leaving me nauseous and confused.

'Turn that off right now!' she barks the command at another woman, who is sitting nearest the video screen. The woman leans forward to do so.

' _Don't touch it, you parasitic whore,_ ' I hiss at her, the sentiment unexpected and abhorrent even as it spits from my lips.

The woman looks at me for a fraction of a moment.

In one fluid movement, she presses the power button. The screen blacks out.

My insides splinter and swell into a devastating rage.

I flail around furiously, not caring who I hurt. Be it one of these _people_ or myself. I just want to connect with something. Inflict as much damage to it as I can, equalling the agony that is ricocheting around the inside of my skull.

My arm strikes the man beside me. I hear a choke of shocked dismay as my fingers find his neck.

He is taller and stockier than me, yet I'm able to force him to the ground in seconds. Minimal effort. So trivial.

I try to believe that if only it wasn't so easy, I could stop.

His face is becoming darkly ruddy. His eyes vivid with strain and terror.

I am breaking down but I can't fucking let go.

His pulse flutters wildly under my grip as I exert more pressure. Black and blue bruises blossom in the skin beneath my thumbs.

I am so horribly aware that I am crying and snotting all over this complete stranger as I throttle him for no reason.

There is a soft and dreadful cracking sound. Capillaries pop. His stare becomes bloodshot.

The next instant it feels as if someone has placed an ice cube on my forehead and mashed it in with their palm. Breath escapes me in harsh rasps as I feel something hot and sticky running down into my mouth. I can taste iron.

I'm finally able to drop the man. I swipe the back of my hand across my top lip and nostrils. I raise my arm to inspect it and see a coating of thick, dark blood, soaking into the sleeve cuff.

'Please…' I whimper, 'I don't know…What-'

I feel a terrible sting as something jabs into my neck. Boiling chemical forcing its way inside.

I reach clumsily for the shaft of the needle, intent on pulling it out and ending the violation.

Instead, I collide with an enveloping wall of unconsciousness.


End file.
